Blood of Apache Mesa

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Wildon settled into the ride. But he had trouble concentrating on the task ahead. His mind raced with confusion and new attitudes and considerations of his wife and the army.

  Perhaps he should resign his commission and return to New York with Hester. My God! his thoughts told him. He’d come within a few seconds of actually killing her to keep the poor young woman from being raped and brutalized by a gang of border bandits. What sort of life had he brought her to? What right did he have to insist that she stay and live in such an awful place?

  Perhaps the desire to be a soldier was no more than boyish, silly daydreams that should now be dashed by reality. Their life at Fort Mojave would be no better than what they endured at Fort MacNeil. And what about the next miserable post? And the next? And the next? The awful circumstances of frontier service could go on for the next thirty years.

  Wildon took a deep breath and made up his mind.

  When they arrived at Fort Mojave, he would submit a resignation of his commission and return to New York to get into his family’s business.

  He glanced over to the flankers and saw Sergeant. James Garrity riding there. Garrity grinned and waved back. A look to the other side showed the old troopers Dortmann and Jones guarding that flank.

  Soldiers all.

  A wave of disappointment and frustration swept through Second Lieutenant Wildon Boothe. No matter how he rationalized or contemplated the situation, he loved the army and, above all, the United States Cavalry.

  Twenty

  Trooper Harold Rampey and his best pal Trooper David Mauson were stationed as flankers on the left side of the wagon train. Their former disappointment with army life due to constant demands of manual labor and boring stints of guard duty had been alleviated somewhat by the earlier fight with the bandits.

  Although three men had been killed in the battle, the pair of eighteen-year-olds had already forgotten the horror of seeing comrades shot down. Their young minds spent more time dwelling on the thrill of exchanging shots with the desperados.

  Harold pointed to the front where Second Lieutenant Wildon Boothe rode. “There’s a hell of an officer, David.”

  “He sure is,” David replied in sincere tones. “Wasn’t that something of him riding off and rescuing his wife from them outlaws? That’s just like knights do in storybooks. Only they don’t fetch their wives, they save damsels.”

  “Sergeant Garrity helped out,” Harold reminded him.

  “Yeah, but it was the lieutenant who was in charge,” his friend said.

  “She’s a pretty lady,” Harold said.

  “Who?”

  “Missus Boothe, you idjit! Don’t you think she’s grand?” he added, not realizing she was only a few months older than they.

  “I bet you got a big crush on her, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t,” Harold said.

  “Yes, you do!”

  “Don’t!”

  “Do!”

  “Well, anyhow, she’s pretty like I said,” Harold insisted.

  “Kinda snobbish though,” David noted. “You ever see how she looks at us fellers? It’s like we ain’t even there sometimes.”

  “Oof!” Harold slumped in the saddle.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  The second shot was louder and whipped between them with a ripping sound. David looked in the distance. “Riders coming in!” he shouted. “C’mon, Harold!”

  “I think I been shot, David,” he said in a weak voice.

  David looked at him. “You been hit in the back of the shoulder. Can you hang on?”

  “I guess I better.”

  The two veterans, Dortmann and Jones, had been riding the rear guard. They heard the shot and had seen Rampey sway in the saddle. The old soldiers knew exactly what had happened. Without uttering a word, they galloped out toward the two young troopers. With carbines drawn, Dortmann and Jones covered the kids’ withdrawal back to the wagon train.

  Lieutenant Boothe had also heard the shots. He came in quickly from his post at the head of the wagon train to join them. “Did either of you see where the shot came from?”

  Dortmann, still on alert, shook his head. “No, sir, not exactly.”

  “It had to be from the southeast,” Jones added.

  Wildon noticed Harold and David sitting awkwardly on their horses. “Damn it, Mauson! Get Rampey down to the surgeon. He’s bleeding.”

  “Yes, sir,” David said. “C’mon, Harold.”

  The lieutenant got his field glasses and stood in the stirrups as he looked through the lenses at the far horizon.

  “God damn them!” he exclaimed.

  Dortmann squinted his eyes, trying to see in the distance. “What’s out there, sir?”

  “Those bandits have found us again,” Wildon said. “Let’s head back for the wagon train.” The trio of cavalrymen turned their horses and raced back to the vehicles. “Form a circle!” Wildon shouted. “Sergeant Garrity, bring in the other flankers.”

  Within short moments the small detachment was prepared to defend itself. The women were gathered around the Mulvaney wagon. This time rather than staying at their own vehicles, they stuck together in a group. This was Wildon’s idea. He wanted none snatched up by the bandits. In keeping them together, they would be easier to watch over.

  The soldiers and teamsters stood tensely at their posts. There was no movement out in the desert, only the sound of the wind whipping through the canvas tops of the wagons.

  “Out there!” a soldier shouted. “Look!”

  A half-dozen bandits appeared on the horizon. They rode in a wide circle around the train, but fired no shots and made no attempts to close in within rifle range. After making an obvious observation of the situation, they rode out of sight.

  Sergeant Garrity, standing beside Wildon, spat a stream of tobacco juice. “They just wanted to see how we was setting up.”

  “Fine,” Wildon said grimly. “Now the sons of bitches can come on in here and get killed.”

  “Damn right, sir.”

  But the next appearance of the outlaws was even more peaceful than the first. Two of them came into view—and they had a white flag. “What the hell?” Wildon asked.

  “I’d say they wanted a parley,” Garrity said. The two-man bandido delegation rode to a point within a hundred yards of the soldiers. They waved the white flag. One of them then galloped toward the wagons holding his hands over his head. When he was within shouting distance, he stopped.

  “I wish to speak with el comandante!” he hollered. He motioned to the man behind him to ride up. “I claim the protection of la bandera blanca—the white flag.”

  Wildon looked at Garrity. “What do you think, Sergeant? I never heard of hooligans calling a truce.”

  “I haven’t either,” Garrity said. “We’d best stay on the alert. It could be a trap. In the meantime, let’s see what he’s got to say,” Garrity suggested.

  Wildon waved to Sergeant Mulvaney. “Take over until we get back, Sergeant!”

  “Yes, sir,” Mulvaney said. “Watch for tricks, you two.”

  Wildon and Garrity mounted up. They rode out to the two bandits and stopped ten yards from them. The lieutenant was blunt. “Say your piece.”

  But the bandit insisted on protocol. “I am Coronet Paco Fuentes, the chief of staff for el General Mauveaux the generalisimo of the Latin Army.”

  Wildon crossed his arms and exhibited a sneer. “What do you want, Paco?” he asked, purposely using the man’s first name.

  “Si, tu,” Garrity said. “Que quieres?” He used the familiar pronoun rather than the respectful “usted.”

  Fuentes frowned. “I am an officer like yourselves,” he insisted. “I have been made a coronet “

  “Speak up, Paco,” Wildon said. “We don’t have all day.”

  “Muy bien,” Fuentes said angrily. “On behalf of el General Mauveaux I demand your immediate surrender.”

  “Most interesting,” Wildon said. He yawned.

&nb
sp; “Our army numbers in the hundreds,” Fuentes continued. “We can crush you at any time. But the benevolent and merciful el General Mauveaux will grant you your lives. All you must do is surrender your arms and wagons. Then you will be allowed to continue unmolested on your way.”

  “Your boss’s demand is asinine,” Wildon said. “I reject it outright and will not even take such a ridiculous proposal under consideration.”

  Fuentes couldn’t quite understand what the American lieutenant meant. “What is it you say to me?”

  Garrity interrupted. “What he’s saying is for you to piss up a rope.”

  “You refuse the demand of el general?” Fuentes asked.

  Wildon drew his pistol and shoved the muzzle toward the Mexican’s face. “You’re got one minute to get out of here and crawl back under a rock, or I am going to blow your head off your shoulders, you son of a bitch.”

  Fuentes and his flag bearer wisely left the scene without further comment.

  While Wildon and Garrity rode back toward the wagon train, Surgeon Dempster sought out Dixie Mulvaney. When he found her with the other ladies, he tipped his hat. “How do you do, Mrs. Mulvaney?” He held up a restraining hand before she spoke. “Now I’m sober as a judge right now.” He sighed. “Unfortunately my hospital steward is not.”

  “You’ve not set a good example for him,” Dixie said.

  “Perhaps not, ma’am,” Dempster admitted. “At any rate, I’ll need some help from a couple of your ladies. Young Trooper Rampey has been hit in the shoulder, and I’ve got to get the bullet out and bandage him up. It’s a bit more than I can accomplish on my own.”

  “Well, certainly, man. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Dixie said.

  Hester, standing nearby, spoke up. “I would be glad to lend a hand.”

  “Thank you kindly, Mrs. Boothe,” Dempster said.

  “I believe it’s customary from what I’ve heard,” Hester said. “I am the senior officer’s wife.” Mary Dougherty stepped forward. “It’s not necessary, Mrs. Boothe. I’d be happy to stand in for you.”

  “Thank you very much,” Hester replied. “We army wives seem to have our duties as do our husbands.”

  “I am grateful to you, Mrs. Boothe. Your help is truly needed.” Dempster replaced his hat and led the two women back to his ambulance. He had placed Rampey on an operating table that consisted of a stretcher laid across some hardtack boxes. The young soldier was in pain, but he managed a weak smile for the ladies.

  “How do, Missus Boothe, Missus Mulvaney,” he said weakly.

  “Now, young man, we’re going to make you all better,” Dempster said. He got his instrument case and set it on the tailgate of the ambulance. “Let’s see about giving you a nice nap.”

  Rampey gave the doctor a suspicious look. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m just about to administer a nice soothing application of chloroform,” Dempster said. “You’ll go to sleep and before you know it, you’ll be wide awake and it’ll all be over.”

  He took a cloth and placed it across a small wire frame just large enough to fit over a man’s mouth and nose. After splashing on a few drops of chloroform, he set it down on the young patient’s face. At first Rampey shook his head in protest, but quickly grew feeble and went to sleep.

  “Now we must be fast,” Dempster said. “Mrs. Mulvaney, will you be kind enough to sponge away the blood while I probe for the bullet?”

  “Certainly,” Dixie said. She knew exactly what to do. She went straight to the instrument kit and retrieved a sponge. “I’m ready.”

  “What do you require of me?” Hester asked a bit fearfully.

  “Simply hold on to his wrist, Mrs. Boothe,” Dempster said.

  She did as she was told. “Yes?”

  “Can you feel his pulse?”

  Hester gingerly felt around. “Oh, yes. Now I can.”

  “Fine. Now if it begins to get very weak or erratic, please let me know,” Dempster said. “Anesthetics sometimes act as more of a depressant than we desire.” He took another look at the ladies. “Shall we begin?”

  He gently rolled Rampey over to expose his wound. Using a foreign-body probe with a blunt end, the surgeon deftly inserted it into the bullet hole and gently eased it forward.

  “If it weren’t for the chloroform,” he said cheerfully, “this young soldier would be screaming his head off about now.”

  Hester smiled weakly as she monitored the pulse. Dixie sponged at the blood pouring from the wound. “At least we’ve no problems with arteries this time,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Dempster glanced up at Hester. “Mrs. Mulvaney has aided me on countless such operations.” He continued pressing the probe. “Ah! Here it is. Not deep at all. The bullet must have been fired from a long range.”

  Hester was suddenly alarmed. “Doctor Dempster, the pulse is going away!”

  Dempster grabbed the wrist and checked the rate. “It certainly is.” He went to his kit and brought back a bottle of liquor of ammonia. Opening the stopper, he shoved it under Rampey’s nose for a brief moment. “Any change now, Mrs. Boothe?”

  Hester nodded. “It’s back to where it was.”

  “Fine. It’s only a matter of a bit of stimulant to counter the chloroform,” Dempster said. “Now, let’s get that bullet out, hey?” Taking a pair of bullet forceps he went into the wound with a smooth swift motion since he knew exactly where to go. After working the instrument a bit, he withdrew it. “Look at that.” He showed the ladies the bullet which was almost intact from not hitting bone. “I’d say that was a .50 caliber. Probably shot at our young hero here from a buffalo rifle of some sort.”

  “He’s lucky,” Dixie said.

  Dempster put a compress over the wound. “Now hold him up so I can wind a nice tight bandage around the shoulder.” The surgeon worked quickly, finally securing the cotton strips. “A week or two in a sling, and Trooper Rampey will be back peeling potatoes and digging latrines.”

  They gently rolled the still unconscious soldier on his back. Dempster removed the anesthetic mask, and took his hat to begin an energetic fanning of Rampey’s face. “We must purge that chloroform from his lungs,” he said.

  Within a few moments Rampey’s eyelids fluttered. Finally he came wide awake and rolled over to vomit onto the ground. Hester had to jump back to avoid being splattered. Rampey stared around dull-eyed and drowsy. “When’re you gonna start?” he asked in a slurred voice.

  “Why, my boy, you are already on your way to a full recovery,” Dempster said. “And guess what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to write out a light duty slip for you,” Dempster said.

  Rampey smiled lazily. “That’s the bes’ news I’ve had since I joined the army.”

  “Thank the ladies for helping out,” the surgeon said.

  More awake now, Rampey sat up. “Ow!”

  “I’ve just been sticking probes in you, lad. Between that and the bullet, you’ll be tender there for a while,” Dempster said.

  Now Rampey noticed the bandages. “Oh, yeah. I guess I’m fixed up.” He looked at Dixie. “I thank you most kindly, ma’am.” The young trooper turned his gaze to Hester. “You’re a beautiful lady.”

  “He’s still under the influence of the chloroform,” Dempster said. “It removes inhibitions, but in his case has not impaired his judgment.” Hester smiled at the compliment. “Come, Dixie. Let us go back to the other ladies.”

  “I’m sure they’ll have some nice hot coffee waiting for us, Mrs. Boothe,” Dixie said.

  They walked across the small area. “Dixie,” Hester said, “would you mind calling me by my first name?”

  Dixie smiled. “Not at all, Hester.”

  “Good.” Hester said. “It will make our friendship that much easier to grow, won’t it?”

  The afternoon dragged by in silence. There was not a sign of the bandits out on the desert. No scouting parties, no probing attacks, not even a casual view o
f a careless outlaw.

  Wildon had called a conference of war with the two senior N.C.O.s. “They’ve got us locked in here for the time being. I need to know our exact situation. How’s the water, Sergeant Mulvaney?”

  “We’ll be running into a problem soon, sir. If we were rolling along on schedule, we’d be out of the Llano Estacado in three more days. We planned on finding fresh water then. As it is, we can stay here maybe four days—five at the most.”

  “We’ll begin rationing immediately. What about the food?”

  “Two weeks’ supply,” Mulvaney said. “No problem.”

  “Fine,” Wildon said. “I presume our ammunition supply is adequate.”

  “That’s about all—adequate,” Mulvaney said. “We can hold out and give ’em hell, but we ain’t gonna do it for more’n a coupla days.”

  Wildon turned to Garrity. “How are the men, Sergeant?”

  “We’ve got nine troopers and three teamsters, sir,” Garrity said. “There’s one man wounded. We also got the hospital orderly who’s as useless and welcome as a whore at church call.”

  “The worthless bastard,” Mulvaney spat. “He was too drunk to help out with young Rampey’s operation earlier.”

  “Break him to the rank of trooper and hand him a carbine,” Wildon said. “The ladies can help the surgeon if need be.”

  “Yes, sir,” Garrity said.

  Wildon glanced out beyond the circle of wagons. “Frankly, I didn’t expect to see those bandits again.”

  “Neither did I, sir,” Garrity admitted.

  “I wonder how many of them there are,” Wildon mused. “Do you suppose we could make a run for it?”

  Garrity shook his head. “No, sir. From the way they’re acting, that’s what they want us to do.”

  “Then, Sergeant, we are under siege, are we not?”

  “That we are, sir,” Garrity said.

  Mulvaney, ever the logistics man, looked around at their small force. “It’s gonna be the old question of who can outlast who,” the sergeant commented dryly.